


It's a Departure

by Swagreus (shiplizard)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Date Night, F/F, Flirting, Identity Issues, Mean Girls, Slighty oblivious lesbians, Spoiler: it's dumb, Widow has strong opinions about romance, gossiping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 18:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/Swagreus
Summary: Sombra and Widowmaker gossip about their friends, spat with each other, chat about murder, give each other things , go out to dinner... you know, friend stuff.





	It's a Departure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [robocryptid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/gifts).



When Sombra first starts working for Talon somewhat full time, she feels like the odd one out. It's worst with Reaper and Widowmaker. That weird dynamic where there’s three freelancers, but two already knew each other, old friends or whatever, at least one now brainwashed. You know. That old chestnut.

Reaper is goth and quiet and has a dark past. Widow is arch and bitchy and has a dark past. 

Sombra doesn't air her dark past out, because she has a sense of decorum. She turns up the energy just a little until she can almost hear O'Deorain's teeth grinding and pretends not to listen to Doomfist because it frustrates him, and just kind of ignores the other two as long as they ignore her. 

But they bump into each other, the more she spends time in Talon's facilities. None of them really fit with the rank and file. Reaper doesn't seek out old colleagues-- the opposite, once she starts digging, assigning data tags to faceless black figures, she finds that he prefers to work with people who aren't ex-blackwatch. She'll make something of that one day. Widow... nobody really tries to talk to Widow. 

They're all jostled to the edges, aren’t included in poker-nights and bar nights. Wouldn’t go if they were invited. They run into each other at odd hours, and it's two-am when she wanders out to find something to eat and finds the other two conspicuous contractors hanging around in a stairwell like disaffected teenagers.

They're just... talking. 

Widow's talking, specifically; when Sombra walks in in she's calling Reaper a peasant because of the way he pronounces 'oeuvre.' She cuts off mechanically; doesn't stutter or stammer, just slices off mid-syllable with her teeth and turns to look at Sombra. Sombra toodles her fingers. 

“Hola.” 

The bone white mask turns to look at her, too, and then the two killers look at each other and seem to come to a decision. Reaper waves her to take a stretch of bannister. So this is what the cool kids do. Bitch in stairwells.

"She gives me shit about my French," Reaper rasps, unnecessarily. "But I don't have to take this from a woman who pronounces 'focus' like an invitation to an orgy." 

The corner of the Widowmaker's painted mouth twitches slightly. 

"Yeah, I've heard you speak Spanish," Sombra offers. "I'd give you shit too." 

"Next mission I'm playing nothing but Patty Labelle in the transport." 

"As you wish," Widowmaker says. Sombra, searching the web for the reference, says nothing. Ugh, last century, pin on the board that Reaper is a vintage music nerd.  

"I'm very fond of her ouvre." Reaper goes on, draws out oooh-vruh. 

Widow's mouth twitches again. 

"I think Lady Marmalade is my favorite." Reaper's menacing voice lands hard on a long 'a'. 

There's maybe just the tiniest crinkle in that roman nose. 

"Much better than the cover from Moulin Rouge." Somehow the last syllable rhymes with 'huge'. 

"Enough," Widow scolds, and her mouth is bent in a tiny but visible smile. 

Sombra's really not sure whether she's offended by this whole thing-- that they don't care if she knows they have a personality, like that's not data-- or if it's kind of gratifying. 

* * *

It doesn't happen often, they're not usually in the same place often. Reaper fucks off to play cat and mouse with his old boyfriend; Widow tours Europe at roof level, Sombra goes to chase off some would-be white-hat tracking her a little too close for comfort. Still, you know. They seem to be 'Work friends' now. That's a thing. 

They see each other on missions, in the lead-ups to mission, and it's all very businesslike. 

Mostly. 

At one point Sombra does discover that O'Deorain's read but never heard the word 'Seychelles', and spends an afternoon bending a datatrail halfway up the East African coast just for the pleasure of making Moira say it out loud about a dozen times. 

She expects Akande to jump in and put a stop to the fun instantly, but it takes him a good four minutes to figure out where 'Sigh-Chalice' is and by that time Widowmaker is vibrating with indignation and Reaper is frozen still except for the smoke lashing out from under his mask. 

She sends a text to Widow's comm device. 

'the scientist she's looking for is actually in Burundi ;) ' 

Widow doesn't blink, but when they finally get the green light to go shakedown O'Deorain's target Widow actually unbends her face enough to give Sombra a withering glare, so that's a big success all around. 

* * *

Now she's one of the cool kids, they apparently get to drop in on her lair, which she mostly doesn't love. Reaper hangs at the door, lectures her or drops information or just stares, which is… okay, then, pin in the board, he’s so good at making friends. 

Widow though? Just strolls in. 

Sombra almost pisses the first time Widow just appears behind her and thunks a bottle of water onto her table-- cold and covered enough with condensation that she whisks it away from her input boards and gives her an offended look. 

"It is good for your complexion." A haughty look. "You need it." 

* * *

Sombra finds the perfect shade of blue eyeshadow when she's out tracking down a chemical company with inexplicable financial ties to Lumerico. 

She offers it to Widow with a sugarsweet smile. "For the bags under your eyes." 

* * *

Widow learns-- unacceptable-- her favorite brand of meal replacement bar. 

And buys her a gross of them. Sort of acceptable. 

* * *

Three hours after Reaper has dragged himself out of the gym, a groaning incorporeal mass of pain, Sombra realizes that the motion sensors are still going and Widow's still in there. 

She locks down the lair and makes her way over. Widow doesn't register the doors opening-- she stares straight ahead, a music-box figure frozen en pointe. Her legs scissor and she leaps, landing on one foot. Her ankles make a sound that Sombra can hear across the empty gym.

"Hey!" Sombra calls, but Widow doesn't even blink. 

She hasn't blinked this whole time. 

Sombra has to go and touch her, shake her cold shoulders until she blinks aware. 

Sombra shoves a roll of bandages into her hands.  "You're bleeding on the floor. Gross." 

Widow looks down at the red smears on her shoes, nods blankly, and takes the bandage. 

"Thank you." 

That's not the rules of the game. That's not an insult.  Sombra's so shaken that she does the first thing that comes to mind, which is to flick Widowmaker on the nose. 

"Boop!" 

Embarrassment catches up a second later, and Sombra activates her translocation matrix and leaves Widowmaker with her face mostly blank and slightly bemused. 

* * *

"This place smells like laundry," Widow says, invading her lair once again. 

"Then don't come in?" Sombra suggests.

Widow makes a low sound of disgust in her throat and thumps down a vase full of flowers.

Sombra keeps glancing at them, the fragrant smell of sweet pea and freesia catching her unawares now and then.

* * *

The flowers represent sort of an escalation in the gifts and favors war, and Sombra acts accordingly. 

She's actually looking for a prank gift for Reaper when she finds the charm. It's a blobby little spider with a black pearl for an abdomen, and a diamond for a head, as expensive as it is garish and unnecessary. It's perfect. She orders it sent to Widow's hotel room and pays out of Talon's discretionary budget, the one nobody really bothers to audit. 

Widow shows it to her the next morning, face ever so slightly suspicious. 

"Reminded me of you!" she chirps, and leaves the sniper staring dubiously into her palm. 

* * *

"You," Widow tells her in Paris, escalating the arms race yet again: "You, I am going to give you culture." 

They go to the Grand Palais, where they watch the people more than the exhibitions. For any talk of culture, Widow doesn't seem to be interested.  She fits strangely in a crowd, sliding through it like a plasma-knife cutting gelatin. People try too hard not to stare, step a little too far out of her reach, and Sombra moves through her wake unnoticed.

...she's never seen Widow look awkward before. Venice was okay, in Venice her icy aura made her look at home with all the other high-class revelers, but in this mess of crying kids and footsore tourists Sombra can see how she doesn't fit in the world anymore. She can't come down to their level.

Sombra understands that. It's all a web of data. People stroll through it without seeing-- it's like a game until it's too much. She could scream at the mess people leave. 

She wonders what Widow sees. 

Widow looks down, surprised, when Sombra pops out of the crowd to take her arms. They walk along the Seine instead, just a couple gorgeous and deadly tourists, and Sombra watches Widow watch the river. 

"So, that place would suck to have a hit in." 

"No." 

"Oh yeah? It's a big glass fishbowl, wouldn't they see you? If you had to hit someone in the atrium, where could you stand." 

Widow tuts, points to a high-rise building up along the river. "From there. Child's play." 

"There? " 

"Oui." 

"No oui," Sombra says, after a moment looking at the angle, and increments her mental scoresheet as Widowmaker's elegant nose crinkles.

"That is terrible. And it is true, I can hit that shot. The curve of the glass, it turns a bullet. I would have a mirror, there." 

"Huh." 

Widow nods, looking oddly proud. 

"Showoff," Sombra scoffs. 

* * *

By the end of the second day in Paris she's thoroughly done playing tourist and the arms dealer Akande wants an involuntary chat with still hasn't shown his face. She's settling in for a night of garbage television, a game of 'which celebrity deserves their data sold on the dark web', and a good night's sleep. 

Soldier:76 was seen on the coast not long ago, so she's not expecting Reaper back anytime soon-- hopefully he isn't too chewed up this time, he needs to stop letting that man punch him. Widow is in the bathroom doing... something. For like an hour. 

The bathroom door bangs open. 

"What are you doing?" 

She looks up and double-takes, because Widow is fully dressed in a gown Sombra's never seen before. Her hair is down, spilling over her shoulders.

"I'm watching television. What are you doing?" Sombra cranes her head to the side, and as Widowmaker crosses her arms and widens her stance the slit in the gown rides high enough to see what's under it. 

Nothing is under it. No bra with a back like that, either.  Widowmaker is wearing, in total, three yards of golden silk, one charm bracelet, and a little makeup.

"We are going to dinner." 

"Since when?" 

"You cannot wear this. No. Change." Widow starts going through her luggage, muttering despairingly at what she finds. 

"When did you decide this?" 

"No... no... no, this, and this... is back in fashion, it will do..." She tosses underwear and a park of dark jeans at Sombra, ignoring her protests, and stands up abruptly. "Wait here." 

"Widow!" 

The sniper comes back from her adjoining suite, finds Sombra not dressing, and sighs. 

"...you will not come to dinner with me?" 

Sombra glances at the tv, back at Widow. ...no, whatever's brought this on, she's curious. 

"Eh. All right." 

"Good. Put this on." It's a simple silk shell, a tank top for people who are too good for tank tops. "And the jeans. And this." She passes Sombra a leather jacket.

It's stiff in her hands, black and shiny. "...Never seen you in this before." 

"That is not mine. For you," Widow clarifies. 

It's nice. Thick-- cut loose to move in, wide belt at the bottom. 

"You trying to butch me up?" 

Widow gives her an up and down. "...that is a lot to ask of a jacket." 

Sombra scoffs, and Widow makes an elegant little *tch* sound back, and does that thing with her nose that it's turning out Sombra likes to see, a lot? 

So Sombra gets dressed and does something with her face and … follows. 

* * *

The restaurant Widowmaker takes her is in the high rise near the museum; they have a table in the roof garden, surrounded by diners that would make Sombra feel underdressed if she bothered with that. She hangs her new jacket around her shoulders instead of letting the omnic at the check take it, basking in their disapproval.

"Here is where," Widow says imperiously. "Voila." She points to where the dome of the Grand Palais is just visible past the newer construction. 

Sombra rolls her eyes. "...you made me put on pants and a bra to prove a point?" 

Widow nods elegantly. "But the restaurant came highly recommended to me as well. ...though I am unconvinced. The new management is trying too hard to please." 

Sombra eyes the butter that came with their artisanal rolls. It's been carved into little yellow roses. The fairy lights strung around the roof garden are too symmetrical. Whimsy by design. 

"Yeah, it's all kind of desperate." She slices into a rose. "You ever come here under the old management?"  

She glances up, looking for those little micro-movements, a tell that the conversation is unwelcome. Widow's face doesn't change; it's still set in its shadow of a shadow of a smirk. 

A gust of wind sweeps up from the street; Widow doesn't blink as it blows her loose hair into her eyes, sends the shadow of the table candle flickering. 

Sombra reaches out, wincing in sympathy, and tucks the strands behind her ear. 

Widowmaker's lips bend into faint, but unmistakable smile. Her eyes are fixed on Sombra. 

"...Amelie came here. Years ago, with her friends." 

"Oh yeah?" Sombra's searching her face for tells again, but she grounds like a short circuit when she meets Widow's eyes. 

"Lisette. Basira, Ada, Genevieve...friends from the ballet. It was Ada's birthday. The view was not as good, then. They were still rebuilding, then. This building was one of the first constructed-- all along the river was the cleared away lots. The Palais was under construction, covered in plastic." 

Her lips purse at Sombra’s expression. "What is funny." 

"I'm just trying to imagine you having polite conversations with a bunch of ballerinas. All cute. Having salads." 

Widowmaker actually huffs, a tiny flare of her nostrils. "You don't know many ballerinas, do you? Amelie was not a polite woman, not among friends." 

"Oh, yeah? Insults and assassination plans?" 

She doesn't answer; her eyes flick to the side, and Sombra puts on smarmy smile for the waiter approaching at dangerous speeds. 

Who brings a single card with what is not a menu but basically a notecard telling them how flattered they are to have their food ordered for them. 

“A tasting menu.  _ Magnifique _ .” Widow’s nose does the thing again, her brows joining in this time, tiny little lines of immense disapproval somehow changing her whole expression. Terrifying. It’s so good. Sombra adores it. 

In an undertone, as the waiter leaves, she adds: “Desperation.” 

“I love when I have to guess what my food’s going to be.  Super luxe,” Sombra deadpans. 

“I doubt it will be a surprise. Five courses?” Widow’s eyes focus on the card, reading it like a target. Sombra’s worked with her often enough that she’s almost expecting the bullet hole to appear, like magic, right in the center of the restaurant’s boilerplate. “There will be an amuse. It will be…” Her eyes flick to one waiter after another, to the candles, to the fairy lights. “‘Modern’ but not be risky. A fish or a cheese with something acidic, in a spoon.” 

“The soup will be a bisque, heavy cream.” She tips her chin at the diners around them. “A show of indulgence for the tourists. The entree, shrimp. Minimal, because we will be feeling the effect of the soup-- a ceviche, perhaps, to show that they are not mired in the classics. Because, if the main is not duck, it will be coq au vin. If they are cowards, then, a salad and a cheese course.  If they are cowards with a pastry chef, a cheese course and souffle.” 

“...Could be a flourless torte,” Sombra says, because she doesn’t have the background to go into that much detail without cheating and looking it up, but she’s seen enough competition TV to know what desserts can be a cop out. 

Widow’s lips purse.  “Interesting. Would you bet on it?” 

“Yeah.” Sombra grins. “What are we playing for?” 

“Winner picks the restaurant next time.” 

Funny how she says that like ‘next time’ is a given. 

Funny how it makes Sombra’s heart turn over. 

Widow’s eyes flick to the side again, and Sombra’s mouth turns down. 

“Pardon me, ladies,” the waiter says, ignoring their irritated looks, and whisks two big spoons in front of them, each containing a worryingly pink cylinder impaled with what looks like a shard of plastic. “A surprise from the chef. A roll of cured salmon stuffed with ricotta and mango, garnished with a shard of mango glass that will dissolve on the tongue into an explosion of sweet flavor.” 

“Oh,” Widow says, like the waiter is a Talon soldier who bumbled into the way of her shot. “Molecular gastronomy. How… retro.” 

The waiter doesn’t bat a lash as Sombra taps the weird little plastic candied shard with her fork. The waiter departs-- unlike a Talon soldier who bumbled into Widow’s shot, he does so unscathed and with full use of his limbs.

“He’s just the messenger,” Sombra says, just to be contrary, tapping her mango shard into pieces, watching Widow’s eyes as she tracks him. 

“‘Don’t shoot the messenger’ is not sound tactical advice. I shoot the messenger all the time,” Widow says archly, with a little head toss, and Sombra suddenly sees Amelie LaCroix gossiping with her friends, winking at each other over carefully made-up mouths spitting sweet poison.  “...Now you are smiling at me again.” 

“You’re just cute.” 

The light of the candle reflects in her golden eyes, makes them dance. 

“I know,” she says archly, blue lips turning up. “...you are not so bad yourself.” 

Suddenly Sombra’s chest is full of sparkling bubbles. Alarmed, she looks down, savaging apart her salmon roll. The amuse isn’t actually that bad. The mango glass just tastes like popping candy without the pop, though. 

Widow eats hers as a single mouthful, and realizes when it’s in her mouth that it’s just a little too big. Sombra looks up just in time to catch her cheeks bulging slightly around it and see her look of glacial fury, and the carbonated feeling in her chest intensifies. 

Sombra hears the waiter coming. She’s ready for his timing, now-- she’s in time to lay a hand over Widow’s, because she can see Widow contemplating the ballistic qualities of her salad fork and they’ll get so much shit if they get eyes all over the op just for killing a waiter. 

The waiter steals their giant spoons and fills their wine glasses with the recommended pairing-- Widow is busy swallowing, but her eyes speak volumes about pedestrian choices or something. Sombra keeps her hand where it is until he’s gone, and then removes it to the safety of her wine glass. 

“You think your ballerina friends would like us?” Sombra says, when Widow has her mouth free. 

She considers. “...Well. You, they would. Ada, perhaps, would be disappointed. She was enamoured of Gabriel as he was.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“The rest, though, I think would appreciate his sense of humour. He was always so dour.” A shadow crosses her face. “Captain LaCroix had such serious friends.” 

“Uh-” 

Wherever Widow is in her head, she smiles suddenly, the sharp line of her mouth bending like a snake. She gives a little jostle of a headshake. “He could ‘sense’ that the Strike Commander had a broken heart, you know. He was certain that he could make a match and bring ‘warmth to his smile.’ ...he thought my friend Basira could heal his lovesickness.” 

Sombra leans slowly back. “Your ballerina friend Basira and Strike Commander… Morrison?” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

Sombra hides her appalled expression in her drink, and Widow waits until she has a mouthful of wine to take her shot: 

“Basira had, of course, been dating Lisette three years at this time…” 

Sombra chokes-- she can feel a tingle in the back of her nose as she convulsively swallows down the wine and then coughs. 

“Love is not blind, but romantics are,” Widow concludes sagely, reaching over to pat at her back. The charms jingle as she does; Sombra catches a flash as Widow takes her hand back, the blobby pearl spider charm squatting between two lampwork glass beads. 

The bubbles rise again. 

“Ladies, is everything all right?” 

This time, Sombra doesn’t cover Widow’s hand.  She’s not sure whether she’s glad or slightly disappointed that the waiter leaves their entrees and gets away with both eyes. 

The entree is a scallop ceviche. 

Widow concedes the loss with a little shrug. 

It’s lackluster-- Sombra’s had better-- but she picks at it and watches Widow watch her, how the muscles in her bare arm and chest move under the skin, as almost-undetectable as her usual smiles. She’s been… demonstrative tonight. Sombra’s never seen her face so expressive when she wasn’t actually in the middle of combat. 

They make idle conversation-- the waiter’s always hovering, has this knack of interrupting whenever they actually get engaged in a subject, so anything sensitive is off the table. Sombra doesn’t mind. 

No, she does really mind the waiter, who seems to think they want a history lesson instead of a quiet dinner, but she doesn’t mind hanging out and not talking about work. 

The main is duck, with a sort of okay white wine, and a risotto on the side--  “A risotto,” Widow said when the plates came. “How novel.”-- and Sombra smirks into her glass. 

She’s drinking too much, loosening up a little too much, but so is Widow-- who drinks in sips, and still gets tipsy enough to bump the candleholder as she reaches for her waterglass. 

“Slow metabolism,” she admits. 

“More for me,” Sombra says, and steals her wine glass. 

She keeps up her banter, tuning her efforts like she’d tune a password crack. As the alcohol makes Widow’s expression soften, makes her bolder,  she teases out another reaction, another expression. A hairflick, a surprised smile, no less than three eye-rolls. 

The waiter comes by to take their plates, present them with a ‘selection of cheeses’ that they’re supposed to share, about a bite apiece. He looks like he’s about to stick around to give a debrief on their origins, but Widow lifts her fork and spears a little orb of soft cheese threateningly, cutting it down the middle with a little more force than it strictly calls for. 

The waiter backs away. 

“The first bite for you,” Widow says innocently.

“Hey, wait, doesn’t it go oldest to-” and Widow muffles her objection with a surgical strike, popping the morsel into her mouth so she has to chew. 

“Slowly. Savor,” Widow says loftily. 

Sombra daintily picks up the other half of the cheeseball and lobs it at her, underhand-- Widow snaps it out of the air with the expertise of a drunken fratboy. They glare at each other for a second, mouths glued shut, and then Sombra giggles and Widow’s eyes crease around the edges. 

They spend the rest of the cheese course poking each other in the face with expensive cheese, offending the waiter enough to keep him at bay for once. For once. 

“‘And then we had a cheese fight’. I’m gonna be the envy of Talon.” 

“Nobody will believe you, anyway.” 

Sombra snorts. “Yeah, they probably think you sit around polishing your gun for fun.” 

“And that you spend your evenings in your underwear staring at at least three screens?” 

“Yeah, but one of those screens is their browser history. So they keep their mouths shut.” Sombra taps her chin theatrically. “Now Doomfist, I don’t know what he does on his off time, only uses the wireless connection for news.” 

“Dull. Lifting weights, no doubt. Polishing his gauntlet.” 

“That’s what he calls it, anyway.” Sombra tips her head. “I bet when nobody’s around he lies on his bed reading, like, the Fountainhead and kicking his feet.” 

Widow smirks. 

“Drawing little pictures of himself holding hands with the main characters in the margin.” 

“Terrible,” Widow says fondly. 

“And Moira… when nobody’s there? She just sits around the lab completely silent. Randomly breaks out into evil laughter.” 

Widow’s mouth is twitching. She feels like she’s on the edge of something. The ultimate prize. The most satisfying security crack. 

“And Reaper--” 

And it happens. 

Widow actually makes a little snorting sound, abrupt and unfamiliar, her eyes crinkling, her cheeks flinching into dimples.  “Gabriel is doing the same thing today he was doing ten years ago. Not fucking Jack Morrison, and taking it out on everyone around him.” 

She glances at Sombra and misreads her stunned expression. “Everyone thinks they were together. No. There was… the lost love, sacrificed tragically on the altar of duty. The noble but doomed marriage, friendship and loyalty without passion. They were romantics, you know? Stupid. They circled each other and they are still circling each other.” 

Which is great gossip, it’s actually news to Sombra, but what’s got her paralyzed in her seat is that now she knows what Widowmaker sounds like when she laughs. 

And it’s so cute she’s going to die. Just. Expire. Right here on the roof.

“Good thing you’re not a romantic, huh?” she chokes out. 

“Amelie was a romantic. She had her great loves.” Widow dismisses it with a sharp flick of her fingers. “Her heartbreaks. Ada, she married. Gerard died. No more romances. Just… this.” 

Her expression softens, and she leans toward Sombra. “This is good, no?” 

A shadow falls over them and Sombra whips toward the intrusion.

“Ladies-” 

Widow’s hand lands on hers before she can reach for the pistol in her jacket. 

The waiter seems aware that he was about to die, and he also doesn’t really seem to care. He must get this a lot. He tucks their picked apart cheese plates onto his tray, gives them both a judgmental look, and delicately sets two tiny plates in their place. 

“For dessert, torte au chocolat, garnished with a raspberry coulis and an airy caramel honeycomb. Please, enjoy.” 

Cool fingers curl a little more firmly around her own. 

“...flourless torte. You were right,” Widow murmurs. 

“Huh?” For a second, she’s only conscious of Widow’s delicate fingertips resting between her knuckles. 

“You win the bet.” 

Oh, shit, yeah. She did. 

“Next time. Anywhere you like.” 

“Cool, next time we’re eating real food,” she says casually. Like it matters what they’re eating if Widow’s smiling at her and just a little tipsy on a teaspoon of wine.

Widow shoves her desert plate dismissively away, and falls into that motionless silence that she usually accessorizes with a long range rifle.

Sombra thinks there probably aren’t many people who’ve been the focus of this concentration and survived. She feels safe, though. 

She turns her hand up on the table and twines her fingers through Widow’s.

And then Widow’s fingers flinch around hers. The waiter is heading her way again, some bullshit about ‘is something not to your satisfaction’ visibly on the tip of his tongue because they’re not crying into their overpriced brownies.

Sombra’s lips curl up. 

“So. Roof garden. Smug waiter. Highest building around. Where do you take the shot from?” 

“Oh, I’ve been considering that all night.” Widow’s eyes gleam, alive, and the hand not gripping Sombra’s slips under the table. Sombra hears silk stirring. Her mind goes blank and warm for a second, but then Widow’s tugging at her hand, pulling her away from the table. “Come! I’ll show you!” 

Sombra throws her new jacket back on and follows. The waiter is coming after them with a determined stride now, but when Widow hops lightly onto the raised garden bed that rings the roof, he stops. He holds their unpaid check uselessly in one hand, mouth agape. 

“Widow-” Sombra sees the grappling hook secure in her free hand. “...wait, where were you keeping that?” 

Widow winks at her, and everything else melts away. 

“Bonsoir,” Widow calls to the waiter, and loops an arm around Sombra’s chest-- her grip is like iron. Sombra wraps her arms around her waist and they take the last step back into empty air. 

Inevitably, they fall together. 


End file.
